


For What It's Worth

by Tallulah_Rasa



Category: Highlander: The Series, The West Wing
Genre: Crossover, Humor, Poor Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallulah_Rasa/pseuds/Tallulah_Rasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Highlander meets The West Wing, or Sam and Amanda's Excellent Adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For What It's Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003. (What can I say? Sam kind of reminds me of Duncan.)

"She said you're dead meat," Toby said, in lieu of "Good morning." He leaned against Sam's office door and rattled his _Washington Post_.  "C.J. She opened the newspaper, and then she said, 'Sam Seaborn is dead meat.' " He glanced at his watch, and then looked up at Sam. "Actually she didn't say it so much as shout it. It's a new record. Usually she doesn't want to kill you until at least 8:30."

Sam jumped up from his desk, spilling his coffee and sending a 367-page report on the use of pesticides by North Carolina soy bean farmers crashing to the floor. He opened his mouth several times, sat down, stood up again, and cast an imploring look at his boss. "What should I do?"

Toby peeked out of the office, registered the coming apocalypse, and turned back to Sam. "I'd suggest getting your affairs in order."

Sam sat down with a thump, stood up, looked around wildly, stumbled against the desk leg, and sank into the chair again. "I didn't do anything," he said. His voice shook only a little.

"Not gonna help," Toby observed.

"But I'm--" Sam began.

"Dead meat," Toby repeated helpfully.

Sam poked his head under his desk, as though searching for a trap door. "But I didn't _do_ anything," he repeated, his voiced muffled by the desk. He poked his head out, vivid blue eyes locking on Toby.  "Really."

"And yet I don't care," Toby said calmly. "She'll be here in a minute. Is your will in order?"

"If she kills me, you'll have to write the thing by yourself," Sam said desperately.

"I'll cry," Toby said. "I've got dibs on your parking space."

" _I've_ got dibs on his parking space," Josh insisted, coming to a breathless stop by Sam's door. "And I think I'm going to win the pool, too. I've got C.J. skinning him alive at 8:17."

"Josh!" Sam said, aghast.

"It's 8:12," Toby said, checking his watch.

"Oh, good.  Then I've got time for a cup of coffee," Josh said.

"Are you trying to protect him?" C.J. yelled from the Communications bullpen. "Is that why you're standing in his doorway? Because if I can't tear him apart with my own hands, I'll be happy to go after one of you."

"I wouldn't dream of standing in your way," Toby said, stepping back and ushering C.J. into Sam's office. "Ginger! Bring the popcorn."

"And some coffee," Josh added.

C.J. stopped at that. "You're his best friend."

Josh shuffled his feet. "Well, yeah."

"And you want to stand here and watch me take him out?"

"Well... yeah."

C.J. shook her head. "He's unlucky, as well as an idiot." She sent a steely glare into the office, skewering Sam like a butterfly on a pin. "And he's so very screwed."

"He got _screwed_?" Josh asked. "That seems, well, pretty unlikely."

C.J. pushed the two men aside, strode into Sam's office, and slammed the door.

"I didn't do anything," Sam squeaked.

"Four million dollars, Sam."

"I didn't --"

"That's what the papers are saying. Four million. It's a conservative estimate."

"These things are difficult to appraise," Sam offered cautiously. "Many paintings and historical documents, even those in the White House, are of questionable authenticity and provenance. Some experts feel--"

"Four million dollars worth of paintings and artifacts, Sam," C.J. said,as though Sam hadn't spoken. "Almost taken from the White House."

"Yes," Sam said.

"By a woman, Sam."

Sam swallowed. "Equal opportunity laws have paved the way for many women to enter new and lucrative careers formerly open only to men," he began. C.J. leaned over the desk, daring him to continue. Sam, wisely, did not.

"She would have gotten away with it," C.J. said. "It was only only a matter of luck. One of the Secret Service agents went by the Mural Room to get a folder the President had mislaid, and what do you think he found?"

"A--"

"Shut up, Sam. I'll tell you what he found. He found a woman --a notorious thief, by the way -- with four million dollars worth of small paintings, art objects and historical documents in a bag. The agent arrested the woman, Sam, and do you know what she said?"

Sam opened his mouth, caught C.J.'s eye, and closed it again.

"She said -- and I know this because Danny Concannon put it on the front page of the _Washington Post_ \-- that it was all a misunderstanding, and that she was a friend of yours."

" 'Friend'  is something of an exaggeration," Sam said after a moment. He had the air of a lawyer making a valiant but obviously doomed attempt to get a convicted killer off Death Row.

C.J. settled deliberately in a chair across from Sam. "I see," she said in a voice that could have sent the Sahara into an Ice Age. "So you're saying this is someone you met and then accidentally slept with?"

"Of course not!"  Sam retorted.

"So, you _didn't_ sleep with her?"

Sam squirmed. "Well, no. I slept with her. I just didn't do it by accident." He took a breath. "C.J., you have to understand, I really didn't have a choice in the matter. She was...She's..."

C.J. raised an eyebrow. She picked a paper clip off Sam's desk and slowly and deliberately bent it into a totally unrecognizable shape.

Sam winced.

"You...didn't...have...a CHOICE?"

"I...It's not...You weren't...She..." Sam searched for words, for justifications, but found none that would explain his behavior. Not to C.J. Not to any woman. Not even to a reasonably savvy man.

C.J. took a deep breath, and wondered if strangling the Deputy Communications Director would inevitably lead to losing her job.

Sam quietly banged his head on his desk a few times, stopped, took a deep breath, and then solemnly held out a staple gun to C.J. "Just kill me now," he said.

C.J. eyed the stapler. "Are you allowed to have one of those in your office?" she asked. "After you stapled your hand to the budget report, I thought Ginger took yours away."

Sam dropped his eyes. "I stole it back." He looked up at C.J. "Sometimes, this job...I start feeling..."

It was C.J.'s turn to swallow. Sam was an idiot, but really, a very sweet man. "It gets too much, huh?"

Sam stared at her, bewildered. "No, I just need to organize some of my papers." Her meaning sunk in, and he burst out in what was, for Sam, an explosion. "C.J., I'm not such a klutz that I could commit suicide with a staple gun! Why do people act like I can't be trusted with the simplest thing?"

"I don't know," C.J. said, sinking back in her chair. Her earlier anger had settled. She almost had an urge to laugh, though she hid it well. "Maybe it has something to do with your setting fire to the White House, accidentally sleeping with a call girl, and," her voice rose here, as her anger reconstituted itself, "oh, yeah, befriending a woman who tried to steal the entire contents of the White House."

"That's an exaggeration, C.J.," Sam protested. "It wasn't the entire contents, and--"

"Sam," C.J. said slowly and distinctly, "if you say again that she isn't exactly a friend, I will hurt you."

"I only met her once," Sam said in a small voice.

"And you certainly used that time efficiently," C.J. returned. "Honestly, Sam, what were you thinking?"

Sam cleared his throat. "That's not a fair question."

C.J. leaned forward. "Get used to it, Spanky. After we're done here, Oliver Babish is going to have a few questions. And then Leo. And then, if there's anything left of you, the President will no doubt have some thoughts he'd like to share."

Sam stared at his hands for a minute. "What if I quit right now and promise to become a Republican?"

C.J. shook her head. "Wouldn't help. Face it, Sam. You've got no rhyme, you've got no reason. You're dead meat, my friend."

"I had your necklace," Sam said, so quietly C.J. almost missed it.

"You had my -- Sam!"

"I saved your life," Sam whispered. He kept his eyes on his desk. The spilled coffee on his blotter had dried in the shape of a giraffe.

"You're holding that over me? You expect me to save you from your own hormone-induced stupidity because---"

"No," Sam broke in. "No. You're right. That's..." He shook his head and met C.J.'s eyes. "I wouldn't do that."

C.J.'s heart twisted.

Sam sighed. "Do what you have to do. Just...I didn't do anything. I mean, I did something, but I didn't do anything illegal. I didn't encourage any illegal acts. And anything I did do, I didn't do by choice." He took a breath. "I wouldn't do anything to...I believe in President Bartlet. I would never do anything to compromise his administration. No knowingly. Not willingly." He stopped, and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the ends standing at strange angles. "I just wanted you to know," he finished lamely.

C.J. thought about Rosslyn, and about MS, and about that State of the Union address when the President had to park it and Sam made sure he did, even if there was no cure for cancer. She thought about knowing wrong from right, and about how things look as opposed to how they are. "Okay," she said.

"Okay, okay?" Sam asked after a cautious minute. "Or, okay, and it was nice knowing you?"

"Okay, okay," C.J. said, and she even smiled a little. "But you have to give me something to work with here, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and flung out his arms in what C.J. supposed was a universal symbol of surrender and despair. His left arm knocked a pile of file folders to the floor.

C.J. grabbed a pen and legal pad from the desk and settled back in her chair. "Just start at the beginning," she instructed. "And tell me _everything_."

"Okay," he said. "It happened like this..."

* * *

"The Assistant Curator for Loaned Acquisitions?  From the National Gallery?" Sam asked Ginger. "You're sure?"

She nodded, as she had the first two times he'd asked.

"And she wants to see _me_?  Now? It's after five o'clock." He checked his watch. "Hell, it's after seven."

"Amazing as it seems, yes. She's waiting in the Roosevelt Room. And if you ask again, the answer will be the same, so just go, already."

"But I have the thing..."

"My Assistant Curator trumps your thing," Ginger said with a laugh. " _Go_."

He started to leave, and turned. "I didn't do anything, did I?"

She looked at him with something akin to pity. "Did you set fire to the National Gallery?"

He thought for a moment. "I think I'd remember that."

"Then you're probably okay." She gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "Look, maybe she heard you're a geeky details guy, and she wants to discuss geeky acquisition stuff with someone."

"Geeky acquisition stuff?"

Ginger shrugged. "I'm going to tell Toby he has to go to your thing. You probably want to be gone before I do that."

Sam came back to her desk. "You sure you don't want me to go with you? I mean, he'll yell at me instead of you if I'm there."

"It'll be okay," Ginger said. "I'm bringing him pie."

Sam nodded. "Okay then. I'll just go discuss geeky acquistion stuff now."

"Attaboy," Ginger said, balancing a plateful of pie on a stack of folders and heading toward Toby's office.

Sam dutifully made his way to the Roosevelt Room, where he was greeted by one of the world's most beautiful women in what was surely one of the world's shortest skirts.

"Amanda Montrose," the woman said, holding out her hand. "It's so good of you to take the time from your busy schedule to see me, Mr. Seaborn."

"Sam," he said automatically, taking her hand. She moved closer to him, and he could smell her perfume. It was, like her, very beautiful, and very, very sexy.

He cleared his throat. "I thought I knew the name of everyone at the National Gallery. I don't remember yours."

She smiled brightly. "I'm new, and they haven't updated the directory yet. Isn't it awful? I only just got my ID card." She opened a neat black leather briefcase -- which matched her black leather suit --

* * *

"Wait," C.J. interrupted. "She was wearing black leather?"

Sam nodded.

"And that didn't...I mean, you didn't think that was odd for a government employee?"

The last time I made a comment about the wardrobe of a government employee," Sam said carefully, "I was accused of being sexist and creating a hostile work environment."

C.J. gave him a look.

"Ainsley," he explained.

"Oh. Okay," she said with a wave of her hand. "Go on."

* * *

and  showed him a National Gallery ID card that read:

_Amanda Montrose_

_Assistant_ _Curator, Loaned Acquisitions._

She really had a charming smile, he noticed, as she replaced the card in her briefcase. "You don't really look like an Assistant Curator," he said hesitantly.

"Looks can be deceiving, don't you think?" she answered. "So _many_ things can be deceiving."

Given his experiences over the past three years, he had to agree that this was true. "You're working late," he said, for something to say. He hadn't noticed before that leather could be so...well, it certainly molded to a person's body.

"Government job," she said with a shrug. " _You_ know how it is. When your country calls..."

He knew. "So how can I help you?" he asked, He really wanted to help her. Government employees had to stick together, after all.

* * *

"She forged the ID," C.J. interrupted again.

"It looked real," Sam said. "I've seen enough government IDs to know."

"You wouldn't have noticed if it was fake, would you?"

"I don't know," Sam said, innate honesty overcoming any sense of self-preservation.

C.J. took pity on him. "Black leather, huh?"

"Yeah.  And the jacket had a zipper, and it..." He waved his hands. "...it wasn't really zipped."

"So she was...?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I mean," he amended hastily, "anyone would have noticed."

"So, was she...?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam said, trying not to grin. " _Really_."

"Go on," C.J. ordered, in the voice she used when she'd had quite enough of everyone and wanted them to avoid her for at least an hour.

* * *

"I have a list of items here, items which are supposedly on loan to the West Wing," Amanda said. Her voice was strangely compelling. And husky, for some reason. He liked the sound of it. "I'd like you to take a look at it and tell me if each piece is indeed here, and where the piece is located. I'll use this information to visit each piece and check its condition." She paced a hand on his arm and leaned close. "You don't mind, do you?"

Her eyes sparkled. Really sparkled. He'd always thought that was a cliche.

"I'd love to help you," he said, "but I really have no idea what's here."

She pouted.

"I still get lost finding some of the rooms in the West Wing," he admitted. "And I couldn't tell you what color they're painted, much less what's in them. I'm sorry." He stood up. He didn't remember sitting. And he was very sorry not to be able to help. "I'll tell you what, though. Tomorrow I can get one of the assistants to check your list with Housekeeping, or the White House Curator, or the Secret Service. I'm sure _somebody_ will--"

"Oh, no," she said hurriedly, and she was standing, too, standing very close, and he tried not to look down, because...well, because. "I really couldn't have you going to all that trouble. And I'm on sort of deadline here."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He really did want to help her.

* * *

"Boy scout," C.J. interrupted yet again.

"Hey! You asked," Sam said. "And I'm trying to explain."

"I'm getting the picture, Sam. You got taken."

Sam grinned. "Well...yeah."

The grin confused her. "What?"

"I got taken, but it was a hell of a ride," he confided.

She tried not to grin back, but it was too hard. "Yeah?" she asked. "Tell me."

* * *

"Oh, don't be sorry," she said. "I'll manage the list myself." She fiddled with his tie, and he looked down to see if maybe he'd spilled something on it. He shouldn't have looked, because then he could see that the zipper on her jacket was...well, it was clearly defective. "And I really wanted to meet you."

"Me?" he asked. His voice didn't sound right.

"You," she confirmed. She was still playing with his tie, and she was staring into his eyes, and he was very, very confused, because no one from the National Gallery had ever looked at him like that before. "You're the $3,000 man. I read about you."

"Sorry?" he managed to choke out.

"Your friend, the call girl?  You didn't pay her. She didn't ask you to pay her. I was...intrigued." She must have thought he was hard of hearing, because she was whispering into his ear. "About what you have that might be worth $3,000."

* * *

"You're kidding me," C.J. broke in.

"I swear," Sam said, clearly uncomfortable.  "Would I make something like that up?"

C.J. stared at him for a minute. "You are possibly the only man in the United States who _wouldn't_ make something like that up."

He looked at her blankly. "I guess you don't want to hear the rest."

"Are you kidding?" She and Donna had discussed this very thing several times. CJ had even considered personally investigating the matter, but...well, she was afraid of what she might find out. "Finish the story," she said.

"Really?"

"Yeah.  I have to know everything, Sam. It's my job."

* * *

"You know Laurie?" he asked, because it popped into his mind, and it was better than some of the other things popping up there. "But you're not a..."

"No, no," she assured him. "Not n...well, anyway. I'm a th...assistant curator." Her hand was still on his tie, or rather on his chest, and her eyelashes were tickling his cheek. "And I'm also curious." Now she was playing with the buttons on his shirt. "I'm very interested in research."

Sam let out a breath. This was something familiar, something he understood. "Oh," he said. "Me, too. I like research, too."

"I'm so glad," she said, and her hand moved down his chest, and her breath was warm on his neck, and he was glad she was glad. "I have work to do later tonight, but right now I have some time to kill..."

And then she kissed him. No one had kissed him in a very long time. No one had kissed him like that, ever. And her hand was at his belt, and really, he was going to step back, to step away, but the couch was behind him, and there was nowhere to step, and he didn't expect her hand to go _there_ , and certainly not to do _that_ when it got there, and...

* * *

"In the Roosevelt Room?"  C.J. blurted, cutting him off.

"I didn't have a choice," Sam said, hoping she would understand that really, he didn't.

"In the Roosevelt Room?"  C.J. asked again. "Right there on the Roosevelt Room couch?"

Sam nodded miserably. "Also on the floor," he admitted. "But not the rug," he hastened to assure her. "I know Orientals are expensive to clean."

"The floor," C.J. repeated dumbly.

"And on the conference table," he added, because really, he was an honest person.

C.J.'s eyes widened.

"I think it was the leather," he said. "It was kind of inspirational. And she wasn't wearing any...well, you probably don't need to know that."

C.J. shook her head as if to clear it. "So, then...?" she asked.

"She said...okay, this part is weird, C.J."

"The whole thing isn't weird?"

He conceded the point. "But this is really weird. She said it was too bad I wasn't immortal."

"What?"

"That's what I said. But she just shook her head, and kissed me, and said..." His voice tapered off, and he blushed.

_Now_ he blushed? "What?" C.J. demanded.

"She said Laurie was right," he said sheepishly.

C.J. crossed her legs. "I see. And that's when you offered to help her ransack the White House?"

"No, C.J.," he said. "That's when I offered to buy her dinner. She said she'd love to, but she couldn't, because she had to work. So I walked her to the reception area and signed her out."

"And...?"

"She said it would be better if we didn't see each other again, and I said I was sorry about that."

"I'll bet," C.J. smirked.

"It wasn't...I didn't mean it like that," Sam said softly. "Really. There was something about her. I mean, it wasn't just that."

He really was a _very_ nice man, C.J. thought. "Okay," she said.

"And then she said it was a pity, and I said I understood."

He stopped then.

"Sam...?" C.J. prodded.

"I didn't really understand," he said with a sigh. "Anyway, then she said I reminded her of a very old friend, and that she hoped I'd have as much fun holding the bag as he did." Sam paused. "I didn't understand that, either."

"And then?"

"She kissed me, and she left. And that's all I know, C.J. Really."

C.J. thought for a minute. "We can't use any of that, you know. With the press. It's just...no one would believe it, for one thing. We can't use it."

Sam nodded, the condemned man denied a pardon. "I know."

"We'll figure something out," C.J. said. She stood, and her legs were more than a little shaky. "Okay."

"Okay, okay?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Yes, Sam." C.J. couldn't help smiling at him. Sam was so very, very Sam. It was strangely reassuring. And, maybe, a little intriguing. "Okay, okay."

He sat back, his relief palpable, and C.J. went to the door and threw it open.

"Hey!" Josh called out. "Sam's not dead!"

"Well, no, Einstein," C.J. said. "Sam is of value to this administration." Worth his weight in gold, he was. Or at least worth $3,000. She shook her head to rid herself of the thought. "I was...wrong...to jump to the conclusions I did." She glared at Toby before he could comment, and went on. "Sam explained his side of the story, and that's it. There's no reason for him to repeat it to you morons, and I expect all discussion of this matter to end here. Do I make myself clear?"

"But that woman said--" Josh began.

"That woman was a thief," C.J. said firmly. "Is it beyond belief that she might also be a liar?" She didn't look at Sam.

"Kind of a moot point, anyway," Donna said, scurrying across the bullpen to hand Josh a file. "She got away. The woman. Just walked out of the police station, they said. And since her ID was fake and they never got around to fingerprinting her..." She shrugged. "Your meeting is in ten minutes, Josh."

"That's it, then," C.J. said. "She's gone, nothing was actually stolen, and Sam's in the clear. Ginger can confirm that this woman requested a meeting with Sam last night, and that he didn't know her. Security will have seen him walking her out. At no time during their meeting did Sam say or do anything that wasn't...entirely appropriate to the circumstances." She avoided Sam's eyes for that one, too. "Case closed."

"And you're okay with that?" Josh asked, amazed. "Geez, Sam, what did you say to her?"

"To who?"  Sam asked, alarmed.

Josh grinned. Sam was so...Sam. How could anyone accuse him of _anything_? Sam wasn't crafty. He could barely follow a simple conversation. "To C.J.," he said gently.

Sam jumped up and leaned on his desk, trying to make point. "I only--" he began. His blotter tilted, and the staple gun fell on his foot. "Oww!"

Ginger barrelled in. "What did I tell you?" she demanded. "After the last time, what did I say? You can't keep dangerous things in your office, I _told_ you that. Do you ever listen?"

Sam said something, but Ginger shouted him down, and all the phones were ringing at once, so no one could hear him, anyway. Josh stood in the bullpen, laughing, until Donna punched him and pushed him in the direction of his meeting. Toby rolled his eyes at C.J.. "And so things return to normal," he said, heading for his office.

"Yes, they do," C.J. agreed. "Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have a press briefing, And after that -- Donna, I _really_ think we should meet for lunch."

END

 


End file.
